Romans & histoires Guitar Gangsters And Cadillac Blood

he explains, I laugh a little with a shake of the head. "What kind of stuff would he do?" I ask if he was one of the biggest criminals he must have been doing some bad things, but again I couldn't picture my dad doing any of that. "They'd rob shops, steal cars, buy guns and sometimes off people," he tells me, now this definitely didn't sound like my dad "it was all going well for them until they off'd a man called Chase Wilkins," he says, that's the man my dad and that dude were talking about years ago.

CHAPTER 1: ROCK STAR COCK JUNO’S POV June 12th Dear Diary, I swore I was done with musicians after Jake, that emotionally volatile guitarist who ghosted me mid-tour for a groupie with a trust fund and daddy issues. I promised myself no more late-night jam sessions that dissolved into even later-night entanglements, no more lyrics whispered against my skin, no more calloused fingers that knew exactly how to pluck strings and pull orgasms from my body in the same breath.

You know you are one of ma paradise, shawty," he said, kissing my knuckles again. "One of?" "A lot of things make a gangster's paradise, baby. Money, guns, power, and his beautiful queen, which is you, baby." He said, kissing my knuckles again. My heart fluttered again. "I can't get the sex outta my head," he said. Me neither. "That the...." He coughed, making me furrow my brows. "What's wrong?" "Nothing. I think I got a little cold but I'll be fine. Nothing a smoke or two can't solve," he said, winking.

What surprised me the most was that he got his Billionaire title at 21. Clyde has always been smart. I always knew he was meant to be successful one day, but I never thought it would go up to this type of scale. He has a security and tech company that the government and many people go to unfold everything related to tracking, hacking, and the dark web. According to many articles online, he's part of a circle named The Bloodhounds. Some reports mentioned that he has some ties to the mafia, which I hope he doesn't have because I imagine how dangerous it would be for him to be related to criminals.

I've been in here for about two minutes, throwing up and just calming myself down, but now I've got to face the music. I open the door and the man glowers as I walk past him. I don't understand why he can't just calm down. I just saw two men get shot right in front of me, and the killers contemplated killing me, too. I think of how Rodrigo's face just fell apart and I feel nauseous all over again. His blood stained the road dark red.

We stood at a corner and waited for Eduardo to find a suitable parking space. As we waited, Alessandro faced me and asked, “Do you know the name of our gang?” “No.” “It’s CDP. Short forCalcio Della Pistola.” “Casio? As in Casio wristwatch?” “No. Calcio Della Pistola. Translated to your English, it means Butt Of the Gun.” “Your gang name is Bumbum of the Gun?” “Don’t put it that way.” Alessandro was not digging my attempt at being humorous.

Adriano ⫘☠︎︎⫘ The air stank of gasoline and gunpowder. Concrete dust clung to my tongue. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm howled like a dying animal. I ducked behind the hood of a burned-out Cadillac, reloading with blood-slick fingers. My breath came ragged, fire scraping up my ribs. “Arturo?” I barked, twisting to look over my shoulder. Nothing but a dying wheeze and then silence.

"You think I’m the bad guy here, blonde?" I didn’t bother responding. I was too hungry and frankly didn’t trust myself to say something that wouldn’t start another argument. "But seriously," Mason cut in, clearly annoyed, "Ivan’s been acting really weird lately. Dude walked in on me while I was taking a leak just to ask for a damn report about the thing we did." Chase snorted. "What thing?" I asked, eyeing Mason. He smirked. "We executed a drug dealer who was selling to high school kids on our turf." He even had the nerve to wink like he was telling a joke.

Tyrell’s voice crackled through the phone, low and menacing, like the growl of a predator circling its prey. I clenched the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening in the grip. The weight of his words pressed down on me, a reminder of the stakes I was playing with. These Gang members weren’t the kind of people you play around with. They were the kind who made people disappear when they were disappointed. And right now, I was dangerously close to becoming one of those people.

They all had their jackets open, hands near guns, and expressions carved from years of vendetta. Crates stood there like broken teeth, jagged and hollow. A few still smoked faintly, like they’d picked up the habit from the men now circling them. Gangsters muscled around them in slick shoes, equipped with bulletproof egos. They stood around in the ash like altar boys at a cermon, but with worse manners and better trigger fingers.